A Man Of Certain Quality
by Corky the Quirk
Summary: An observation of Charlie Dalton from the point of view of a random classmate...


**Author's Note:** I don't know what this is. I don't know if it makes sense. I don't know if it's good, despite what the lovely and amazing Blackbirdox tells me. I just know it came bubbling out of me and I didn't think posting it would be such a bad thing. Hopefully you enjoy some of it if you read it :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DPS. *sad face*

* * *

Don't try and talk Charlie out of things.

That's the first thing I learned when I found him in the hallway our first day at Welton, attempting to tug his outrageously enormous suitcase through the throng of bustling twelve year old boys. He was small, almost scrawny even, and I offered him help, but he refused, even as larger boys, much more rotund in the waist and towering in height, brushed up against him, battering him this way and that, he wouldn't let me touch his luggage. He'd snarl and snap like a small dog, all sharp teeth and bark whenever someone got too near their food or their chew toy.

Once he reached his room, his suitcases now strewn in the middle of the room, he straightened up, hands on hips, a smirk spreading across his thin lips, as he stared down at the bags in triumph, ignoring the incessant complaints of his red-headed roommate who had apparently just organized and tidied the room to perfection. But Charlie tuned him out so naturally it was as if the other boy wasn't in existence. As if the only things in the world at that moment were Charlie and the pile of suitcases that had been successfully transferred from the front lawn all the way up three flights of stairs and into the cramped room that would be Charlie Dalton's home for the next nine months.

And he had done it. All by himself. And that's probably why he was glowing.

Charlie glowed a lot. And not just from little triumphs like hauling his baggage up the stairs, but from things like being a joker and being smart, although he tried to hide it since that wasn't considered cool, and being athletic, once he got brawny instead of scrawny.

And I envied that. But so did every other boy at Welton, as well. Including the upperclassmen. In fact, they were probably more jealous than the rest of us, since they were older and should have been the ones that were being looked up to, not the other way around.

But Charlie had something about him. Like a gravitational pull. And maybe that's why I've spent so much time studying him.

I'm not an active sort of specimen. I like to sit back and watch. And I'm good at it. And Charlie's good at being watched. He enjoys it. I think it's what makes him tick. It's his life-blood. He needs attention to survive. It's the air he breathes.

Then again, he also likes to be alone. Wallow a bit in whatever grief it is he has. I don't think he has much to wallow about, but what little there is, there is definitely a lot of wallowing going on.

And maybe he isn't wallowing in grief, necessarily, but maybe in some sort of depressed ignored-as-a-child kind of way. Maybe his father didn't give him enough hugs, or his mother didn't kiss him on the forehead like she should have at night while tucking him in.

Maybe his parents only had him because it was expected and they needed an heir and they wanted to fit into society because rich, snobby folks like most of our parents are just like that. They'll do whatever it takes to shove themselves into the mold of the perfect family.

And in the Dalton's case they took such drastic measures as to actually conceive.

It doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad he's around. He makes life at this drab academy actually worthwhile. And he's a good guy. And he's honest. And he doesn't hold back.

When he wants something, he goes for it. He doesn't hesitate or second guess. He just does. And sometimes I wish I could be like that. Doing instead of thinking. Sometimes I feel like I've got to do more. But then I think about it too much and I end up just evaporating away my ideas, staying quiet and going back to watching, like I'm so good at.

I don't just watch Charlie. Don't get me wrong. I don't have an unhealthy obsession with him or anything, despite how much my rambling seems to prove it. No, I just know how to pick out the nitty-gritty from the not-so-important. When you spend your life sitting in silence, you tend to gather a lot of information about those around you.

I know all about his friends. All about my friends. All about the upperclassmen. All about the younger kids. I'm a naturalistic observer. That's what I do. Sure, I'm going to be a high-standing political official someday like my father wants, but for now I'm just going to stay quiet and keep my head low, because that's when you learn the most about people. When you're not there. At least not to them.

It first became apparent how invisible I am to the whole of our class the second year at Welton, when I tripped upon Charlie, head between his legs, one cold fall night outside on the walkway. He was just sitting there, still as a statue, wallowing in whatever way it is he likes to wallow, for that I still haven't figured out for certain, and he hardly looked up when I went traipsing past.

I blinked down at him, one of my eyebrows raised, and cleared my throat. He raised his head, large eyes taking me in, his forehead crinkling. He asked who I was and I explained that I sat next to him all last year during Biology. He didn't believe, called me a nosebleed, and ducked his head back between his knobby knees, as this was before he had started sports.

I didn't take the 'nosebleed' comment to heart, since he didn't seem as if he was in the right mind to really be insulting me or anybody for that matter, and instead, patted his head, feeling him go rigid beneath my touch, and walked away. I told him I'd see him in Latin tomorrow, but all he did was scoff darkly.

The next morning as he plodded into class, dark circles under his eyes, hair unkempt, wholly ignoring McAllister when he began berating him on appearance, I blinked up into his face and a hint of recognition crossed his face.

A year later and I wasn't even on his radar anymore.

Charlie had a way of clearing his mind of unpleasantries, and my sympathy was apparently an unwanted emotion, for which I couldn't really blame him. He was too prideful to take it lightly, and so he blocked it from memory, which meant blocking me as well.

I didn't mind. It made it easier to study all the more. Because, as I said, once you go unnoticed, you can go anywhere.

For the most part, Charlie accepted everyone into his audience if he had something "brilliant" or "ingenious" to squawk about. The most crucial stories of which usually occurred after he had "endured" and "suffered" through a punishment that Nolan had placed upon him.

Charlie was constantly getting beat. One might even call it masochistic, as if he purposely got into trouble just for the pain.

He'd perch in his designated, red lounge chair and wait for us to herd around him like barnyard animals awaiting feeding time, and he'd push his sunglasses up and into his hair, clearing his face of his bangs that flopped against his forehead, a smirk playing across his face, and he'd begin with his tale. It was always the same, just a few tweaks in the plot here or there, but we would always be captivated by every word, just because _he_ was captivating.

He was complex in every way imaginable, even if people hardly saw him as more than the class clown, the star athlete, the womanizing pervert that swept girls off their feet with a blink of the eye. He was more than that. He will always be more than that.

At least I hope.

Junior year. Things happen. People change. But not Charlie. Charlie is as loyal and rebellious as ever, if those two words can even legitimately be used together, they can be used about Charles Emerson Dalton III.

And in a flash, a swing of the fist, an exchange of words, he's gone. Forever. No, not the Neil Perry kind of gone, the Charlie Dalton kind of gone.

No one at Welton knows where he's going. Not yet anyway. Sure, he'll probably contact his close group of friends. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll just let things lie, charter a new route.

But I doubt it. Charlie doesn't turn his back on those he trusts and loves, and he trusts and loves that close knit group of his far more than he trusts and loves his blood relatives. This I know. I don't have to hear him say it or express it, I just know. Everyone knows. It's an innate fact that one immediately catches onto when they meet Charlie.

One other thing is for certain. There will never be anyone at Welton worth my time more than Charlie was. He was different. He was a new breed. A boy—no, a man—of a certain quality that most of us lack. A quality that Todd is learning, and that the rest of us are trying to learn.

The quality of being ourselves.


End file.
